


we don't eat (until your father is at the table)

by echovault



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, and his kids are really cute, ray is a teacher, ryan is also a tired painter who likes ugly sweaters, ryan is always late bringing his kids to school, there is no slow build at all i am so bad at pacing relationships I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echovault/pseuds/echovault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where ryan is a widowed sleepless painter, and ray is a semi-strict teacher.<br/>where ryan is recovering.<br/>where ryan is still trying to find himself, while raising three children.<br/>where ray is working through his own problems.<br/>where ray is vulnerable.<br/>where ray has secrets he hasn't found yet.<br/>where they both like bitter coffee, and bad coffeeshop dates just a bit too much.</p><p>in which kids grow up, and find themselves too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if this is redemption,

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends!
> 
> this is a prompt (thanks jazzy!) that i really wanted to fill out. each chapter is going to be about 2k-3k words long, and i hope that's alright!
> 
> if anyone really truly cares, ryan's kids are named after artists.
> 
> thanks for readin' :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a teacher admires an artist.

They were late again.

 

And as much as Ryan tried to downplay it, he was the reason his kids were in the car 10 minutes later than they should be, arguing over who got the PB&J lunch and who got the turkey sandwich with the sour cheese Ryan had promised them was like that  because it was conjured up by magic (they decided it wasn't).

But it wasn't his fault. He worked late to fill the financial void created by his late wife, (and he winced thinking about it), him being a starving artist and her being a decidedly successful lawyer. Tired painters don't get paid nearly enough during the day, so Ryan also worked long hours during the night to fill commissions brought in to him. He thought about the gallery work he'd be doing today and sighed. His kids were going to be late a few times this week to compensate. 

 

After a few sips of his bitter coffee, and three promises to use a different cheese next time, they were pulling into the school's parent drop-off lot. As other parents simply kissed and hugged their children goodbye, Ryan searched for a parking space, muttering under his breath, knowing he'd have to explain away this to the teacher. 

 

" _DADDY_! ELLIS WON'T GIVE ME BACK THE GOOD SANDWICH!"

 

Today was going to be long.

 

 

Crossing the street was always the hardest part of the day. Dragging two elementary schoolers across a busy lot? Even harder than it sounds. Ellis, Ryan's immensely hyper youngest and only daughter, was either very excited to learn, or had too many spoonfuls of Count Chocula for breakfast because she was not slowing down, no matter how many times Ryan sweetly (but firmly) berated her for letting go of his hand. Jackson, the middle child, was often well behaved in public and held his father's hand tight, scared by the angry parents rushing to work, and the horns they honked. He was overwhelmed by the noise, and Ryan understood, because he enjoyed his peace too.  He had a third, Willem, who was the eldest, but he wasn't with them because he walked to the high school they lived near. Thinking of him, Ryan immediately tried not to envy the amount of quiet he must have each morning, because he _loves_ his kids, even if he wishes he could just tape Ellis to his back and be done with it. 

Finally reaching the front steps, Ellis slowed and smoothed down her uniform dress, and Ryan silently thanks the crossing guard who had warned her of the school's policy on running through the halls, because _she so would've done it_. When the guard tapped his watch and shook his head, he too forgot the rule and lightly jogged to the door, pulling Jackson along. He'd forgot about having to explain to Ellis' formal teacher why he was so late. In a hurry, he let go of Jackson's hand.

 

"Have a good day for me?" Ryan asked him. Jackson nodded, fingers in his mouth. 

"Alright, kid. I love you."

"I love you too, Dad." Ryan kissed his head and ruffled his hair, before sending him on his way down the hall and to his own classroom.

 

"Mr. Narvaez is gonna be _m-a-a-a-d_ " Ellis sang quietly as they descended the stairs to the kindergarten floor. Ryan gulped readily.  _Oh yes he is._

 

* * *

 

Ryan slipped into the bright kindergarten classroom quietly, as Ellis put her backpack away and skipped to her table. The kids were working on a morning project and Ellis wasted no time, immediately ordering the other children in her group around on how to draw what. Ryan could feel Mr. Narvaez’ glare on his profile, and started to squirm as the teacher stalked to the door and opened it, motioning for Ryan to join him outside the classroom.

 

Ryan was never one to listen to a teacher. He had been out of high school twenty-something years, and he _still_  looked for other things to occupy him, rather than listen to the teacher's stern lecture on why it was "detrimental to Ellis’ learning to take away valuable class time". Ryan focused in on the man’s glasses, and how they slipped around his slim face as he spoke with a ferocity that rivaled a lion’s. He noticed a slight discoloration around his eyes, paler than the rest of his already relatively pale skin. _Man, did this guy ever go outside?_

 

“Do you understand, Mr. Haywood? One more lateness and I am referring you. This is a private school, not a daycare. Ellis needs a strong foundation for the future, and it seems you aren’t providing it.” This struck Ryan, and he immediately became defensive of himself.

 

“Sorry, --Ray, is it?”

Ray tried to interrupt “I’d prefer Mr. Narv-“

“Alright, Ray, you may not understand, but I am a single parent.” And as much as the words hurt, Ryan found himself saying them. “I have 3 children to make sure get to school. I work all hours of the night. And I am _damn tired_.”

 

Mr. Narvaez – _Ray_ —sighed. He felt bad for Haywood's situation, and his was only his third year teaching but he knew, this would affect his kids more than he thought.

 

He watched as Haywood waved and made a face to his daughter through the door, blowing a kiss, and leaving down the hallway. He did like to see parents interact with their kids, and relaxed as Ryan sauntered down the hall, pushing open the front door, and bowing slightly to the front guard. Ray swung open the door to his room, and made his way to his desk, looking over his class before starting to take attendance.

  

* * *

  

Later than ever now, Ryan broke about four traffic laws as he sped toward town, and the gallery he was meant to be working at this week. He knew today would be heavy in painting requests, because the gallery had put his art on display a few nights ago. The calls had already been pouring in. He entered the space, smiling at the curator who was showing a potential buyer an original Hirst, and walked to his display space, making conversation with people who had no idea he was the artist, all while sipping that horribly bitter coffee he enjoyed so much. Sure, there were a few regulars who were, by this point, acquaintances with Ryan. But it interested him more to speak to people who would give him an unbiased account of his work. He felt it helped to shape his particular brand of art, which sat on the line of Abstract and Abstraction.

 

After entertaining a young woman with wild hair, who was incredibly enthusiastic about the work hanging on the wall, he introduced himself as the artist, and she just about had a heart attack. “I wouldn’t have said I wish you painted with a less heavy hand! I’m in love with this work, I promise you.” She admitted bashfully, trying hard to make up for it. Ryan held his hands out in acceptance, giving her a quick hug. “It’s alright! Criticism is what makes an artist better.” He laughed warmly, reassuring her. She stuck around and described the art she had been dreaming of, and what she wanted hanging in her living room, and Ryan listened intently and took notes, wearily thinking about the work he had cut out for him.

 

“If this is too much, let me know…” She started, noting the bags under Ryan’s eyes. He stopped her immediately.

 

“I enjoy painting. It’s not a problem.” And he was telling the truth.

 

As they discussed prices, Ryan noticed how she let her hands linger on his arm a bit too long, and how she molded her facial expression into one of disguised lust. And when she asked for his phone number, to invite him to dinner on Saturday, he yawned inside his head.

 

“I’m incredibly sorry.” He lamented. “My daughter’s art class has it’s monthly art show that night,” he lied, knowing well Ellis’ art school’s show was in three weeks “But maybe some other time?”

 

The woman frowned, and then smiled lightly. “Yeah. Some other time.”

 

And Ryan holds his breath as waits while she signs her name in his guestbook.

 

_Next time, just say no. I can take it. Great art!_

_-Megan Turney_

 

He exhales and wonders where God finds people like this.

 

* * *

 

 

He spent hours in that gallery, talking to passerbys, and picking up the phone, scheduling appointments for people to come take looks at his samples. Ryan throws himself into his work so freely, he almost doesn’t notice when the clock strikes three o’clock. And when he overhears a conversation about a patron's child, he’s out the door. Hecan’t believe he’s almost forgotten his own kids.

Ellis has finished early for the day, (the perks of being a kindergartener) and the last student left, coloring while babbling on to Mr. Narvaez about the pictures she draws at art class. And to Ryan’s satisfaction, Ray seems to be listening intently, even asking her to elaborate on some pieces.

“A-hem” Ryan clears his throat, making Ellis’ head shoot up happily.

 

“Daddy, I thought you’d never come!" She explains as she rushes to the cubby for her bag, subsequently handing it to her father, who slings it over his shoulder. And Narvaez can’t help but crack a smile at the sight of this tall, tough father carrying a too small Hello Kitty backpack on his broad shoulder.

 

“Uh, thanks Mr. Narvaez. For, uh, looking after her while I got here. I got caught up in work.” Ryan sheepishly rubs the back of his head, as Ellis impatiently pulls on his other hand.

 

And for once, Ray doesn’t berate him. He just nods, and smiles, moving back to his desk. And after they leave, he googles Ryan's work, wanting badly to see what art has inspired Ellis' classroom drawings. And after he notices that Ryan’s work is being displayed in the gallery a few minutes away from his apartment, he decides to pop into that night's showing. Maybe now he will understand the man when he apologizes for going nights without sleep for his art.

 

* * *

 

 

Ryan drives them home, and when they all get there, he flops on the frayed couch, tired from the day. The kids have rushed to their respective room to start the ‘who can finish their homework first?’ race that Ryan pretends to know nothing of when Jackson walks into class with messy work. He knows he’ll have to start on dinner soon, so he values the quiet he has before they also start complaining about being hungry.

Checking his phone, he sees that Willem has texted him he’d be late today—and Ryan thanks God he’s finally getting help with his Precalculus homework, because he doesn’t have it in him to dig up math from 20 years ago. And while he thinks about what he’s going to make for dinner—today is the day of the week where Jackson refuses to eat anything besides cheese, and Ellis _loathes_ Mac and Cheese—he drifts off to sleep, without even realizing it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The kids (being the angels they are) decide not to wake up their father, because he’s worked hard. And before Ellis can even yell at Jackson for stepping on her head when she got on her hands and knees to lift him to the shelf of the fridge the juice is kept on, Willem is coming through the kitchen door, and easily grabs it to pour himself a cup, rendering all their work useless.

 

“Have you guys had dinner yet?” Willem asks over his shoulder, eyeing Jackson’s food schedule, taped to the fridge door. When they shake their heads no, he says he’s making Mac and Cheese. And when Ellis thinks about it, she loudly disagrees. “You know Jackson has a choosy schedule, and I really can’t make anything else. Can you do this for me?” Willem pleads. As expected, Ellis doesn’t care, and Willem ends up having to promise her junk food aisle snacks (Ryan has banned them from the house, and Ellis is ready to stage a revolution) for her to accept.

 

When Ryan wakes up to Ellis eating the Mac and Cheese he knew she wouldn’t usually, he slips Willem a hi-five, wondering what thing he has given her that they’d undoubtedly argue about tomorrow.

 

And later, before bed, he catches Jackson helping Ellis make a list of all the teeth rotting snacks she’d like ‘ _Willum_ ’ to buy for her.

 

“ _Willem!_ ”

 


	2. have i been good to you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a teacher admires an artist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends :)
> 
> thanks for stopping by.

 

Fridays at the Haywood's were chaotic.

 

Fridays were the days Ellis was allowed to eat the sugary cereal of her choosing (as long as she fixed her bed before breakfast). Fridays were also the day Ellis took her art classes. And bedtime was extended by an hour. Ellis loved watching reruns of Full House at 10. So naturally, she was _hyper_. 

 

Jackson hated Fridays for precisely this reason. On Fridays, his sister got touchy and loud, so he got quieter and quieter. Ryan was lucky to even coax a 'good morning' from him.

 

Fridays worried Ryan. He was worried about his son. He was worried about the cost of the behaviorist the pediatrician had recommended _for_ his son. He was worried about the size of his paycheck. He was worried by the shrinking range of food in the fridge. 

 

He was worried that he had to manage it all alone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After getting his kids to school on time, Ryan took the classic route into the city. Boston was only 10 minutes away, and as he was early, he was able to take his time, drinking in all the sights he’s always been too busy to see.

 

There’s a certain way Somerville begins to transform into the outer reaches of Boston, as the roads merge into one interstate, and the fresh sun shadows the trees, on the tail end of changing their leaves. You can feel the way the quaint town becomes the big city. And Ryan knows, if he didn’t have three reasons not to, he’d live right on the edge of the city, and admire the summative feeling of change he got watching cars roll along.

 

And he had lived here, forever and a day ago. They’d had a nice brownstone, with trees that were kept in shape by some kinder outside force. Ryan took a sharp breath, and forcefully shut his eyes.

 

She’d been gone 5 years, and still it felt like a new pain. It seemed like every memory he brought up had been stained by her presence, doing more bad than good.

 

Ryan was breathing heavily now. He didn’t know he was crying until a horn behind him reminded him of who he was and where he was going. His knuckles were a ghostly white, and kneaded the steering wheel roughly.

 

Wiping his eyes, he pulled over, looking himself in the driver’s mirror. He steadied his breath and took a moment, smiling a watery smile to himself as he reversed out back onto the road. He was used to it. And the day dragged on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ray didn’t know any better.

 

It was a Friday night, and here he was, parked in front of Alpha Gallery, in a sharp suit. He might have been freaking out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Ryan thought various obscenities to himself as he pulled on his black suit jacket, rushing across the street to the gallery’s entrance. _The goddamn party is for me, and I’m still late._

 

He entered and slipped past a couple who debated on whether to inquire about buying the piece they were looking at. Ryan wished they would, and sent out a prayer to whatever higher being listening.

 

Leaning against a wall, he listened as someone began to bargain with the curator about the art they were looking to buy. He silently nodded thanks as his friend sternly reinforced the going price. He knew times were hard on him.

 

“You were late?” Geoff, the curator, and owner of the gallery, chided. “To your _own party_?”

 

Ryan felt heat rise to his cheeks. “I had to make sure our babysitter wouldn’t burn down the kitchen.”

 

Geoff smiled, a warm thing. He slapped Ryan on the back, and guided him around the room making various introductions to people with names he recognized, names with old money and new tastes.

 

And as much as Ryan knew he was in this industry for the art, he couldn’t help but see dollar signs.

 

 

He hung around, making gentle conversation with inquirers, nothing particularly striking, until he hears the negotiation Geoff was making.

 

 

“$2000. I can go higher but I won’t do any less.” Ray stated firmly, staring the man down. He visibly gulped, and told Ray to ‘hold on just a damn minute’ as he walked off.

 

He saw him across the room, as he tapped someone on the shoulder, and Ray’s anxiety as Haywood turned around, the other man’s tattooed arm on his as he hastily told him of their situation.

 

When he saw that Ryan had spotted him, he felt as if he’d died inside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Ryan heard the price a man was willing to pay for his work, he felt as if he'd been awakened.

 

And when he turned to warmly greet whoever was willing to spend such money on his sheepish art, he was more than surprised to see his daughter’s teacher there, and watched as he turned a shade of red and pretended to stare intently at the art next to him.

 

“I know him. That’s Ellis’ teacher.”

 

Geoff snorted heartily. “I knew he was fucking with me. This is why you have to drop your kids off on time. I don’t like revenge, Ryan.”

 

But Ryan was far from listening. “Hold on.” He said, as he pushed through the light crowd, and toward Ray.

 

“Hello,” Ryan greeted him coolly. “I didn’t know you appreciated fine art.” Ray laughed at this. “I studied enough Art History in college to know a Picasso when I see one.” Ryan grinned at this newfound humor.

 

“See, if you had shown me this sense of humor months ago, we wouldn’t have had all the problems we do.” Ryan lamented, Ray turning red again.

 

“I guess so…”

 

Ryan pursed his lips, and turned toward the art. It was a beautiful piece, and it would’ve brought tears to his eyes, at some other suddenly distant time.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Ray muttered. “Haunting…but celebratory.” Ryan smiled slightly.

 

“It’s my wife.” Ray nodded, understanding.

 

“She died a few years back.” And this stopped Ray in his tracks. Ryan continued.

 

“The last day of her life, she’d asked me to paint her. She never let me do it before. And as much as I am an abstractionist, I wanted to capture her beauty in its exact, true form. That’s where the realism comes from. Whenever I am contacted by any gallery to showcase art, I demand they hang this. Of course I didn’t have that problem with this gallery, because I work here. But this--this is where my talent lies.”

 

Ray had been staring at Ryan this whole time, and he noted the wisps that formed at the edge of his eye, disappearing as quick as they came. The two men stood there in silence for a few more moments.

 

“I want to buy it.” And noticing the crazed look that took Ryan’s face, he backtracked. “I don’t know if you’re selling it. Honestly, I’ll buy any form. I’ll buy a copy for the same price. I’ll buy anything. But this—I’ll be thinking about this painting for the rest of my life, I can promise you that. I’d like some way to remember it the way it is.”

 

Ryan said nothing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was almost 1 am when he arrived home, staying late to help the caterers pick up and assemble their trays and glasses, making sure to let everyone who attended and help that they had his praise and thankfulness.

 

The babysitter was awake on the couch, finishing homework, and thanked Ryan steadily when he paid her more than she had worked for. He waved her off, and when she got in her car and drove off, he slapped himself hard, knowing he needed that fucking money. But, she had done a good job. The place didn’t look like a warzone, and it seemed like the Terrible Two were asleep.

 

Checking in on them, he sat on Jackson’s bed a moment, and pushed his hair back, kissing his cheek, before doing the same with Ellis.

 

Placing loose toys back into their respective toy boxes, he quietly shuffled out of the carpeted room, feeling the cold of the hardwood hallway on his feet again as he padded to the kitchen for a can of Coke.

 

He knew Willem wasn’t home, at a friend’s house for the night, and checked his phone for any sign of distress from him. When he saw that there was nothing, he read news articles, and checked his email for a small while. Only one email interested him.

 

 

 

> **From:[ray.narv@gmail.com](mailto:ray.narv@gmail.com)**
> 
> **To: james@alphagallery.com**
> 
> **Subject: Thank You.**
> 
> **I wanted to say thank you for opening my eyes to art tonight. I gave it up after college, and I think you’ve awakened it for me. I hope to see more.**
> 
> **-Ray Narvaez**

 

 

Ryan had never appreciated anything more.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning was calm. Ellis was sleeping in, so it was just Jackson who lounged in the sunroom as Ryan painted an abstract version of him, in comfortable silence.

 

“Why do you and Ellie find painting so fun?” Jackson had questioned him.

 

Ryan was quiet for a thinking moment. How do you summarize years of feelings, and scale them down to a child’s understanding?

 

“I’m not so sure, Jack. It’s different for everyone.” He offered.

 

Jackson frowned. “It’s too messy. I want to do something fun too.”

 

“We’ll find you something.” Ryan promised. He wasn’t sure they would.

 

 

After making banana pancakes for breakfast (it was Jack’s banana day), they all sat and Ryan read poetry aloud. It was their favorite pastime. Even Ellis was alright of missing 30 minutes of play time to the ‘pretty words Daddy read on Saturday afternoons’ (as recounted to her class when asked what she did over the weekend).

 

Ryan wanted his kids to appreciate art badly. And if Jackson was adverse to physical art, that was fine. There are many different art forms, and he had a lifetime to explore them.

 

 

The rest of the weekend was lazy lounging, Willem finally joining them on Sunday. And when thinking of a fun family activity for them to carry out, Willem kindly reminded Ryan of how they’d been planning to teach Ellis how to ride a real bike for weeks, and put it off every time. They’d better do it before it got too cold outside. Novembers in Massachusetts were known to be harsh.

 

“How about we take a trip to the park? We can ride bikes—“ He hadn’t even had the chance to finish his thought before Ellis pealed out the door, and impatiently stomped her feet for her father to unlock his car.

 

And it was nice outside. The leaves were finally browning over, and falling from the trees. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold, and Ellis declared it “just right”.

 

They spent hours, going at it again and again, Ellis wobbling and falling the whole way through. Ryan had to admit, she was strong.

 

She did get it. And when she rode the trail on her two-wheeler with no help, they all cheered for her, even Jackson, who thought noise like clapping was arbitrary. Ryan smiled at this, as he spun Ellis around, and proclaimed that ice-cream was in order. It was a good day.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

And it was made even better when Geoff called him at 6:00 pm, asking him to stop by the gallery. The whole 10 minutes into Boston, Ryan did everything but chew his fingers off in anxiety. _What had he done wrong?_

 

 He found all too soon he’d done nothing wrong.

 

When he entered the gallery, Geoff was waiting on one of the black leather seats in the middle of the showroom. All was quiet as he approached him, taking a small piece of paper from Geoff’s hands. Ryan could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart in his ears as he read it over and over, in sheer disbelief.

 

A check made out to the gallery. $2700. For a work of Ryan’s.

 

And it was under Ray’s name.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As Geoff congratulated Ryan, they hugged, and Geoff meant it. He knew what this meant to him. Ryan spent a few more minutes sitting in his disbelief, until he wished Geoff a good night, and exited the building. Before turning his key in the ignition, he opened his phone to pen a very, _very_ thankful e-mail to Ray, but saw he already had one.

 

 

 

> **From:[ray.narv@gmail.com](mailto:ray.narv@gmail.com)**
> 
> **To: james@alphagallery.com**
> 
> **Subject: [None]**
> 
> **I’ll take any size. Original or not. Any medium. It’s all your choice.**
> 
> **-Ray**

 

Ryan couldn’t believe how this had played out, and pulled into a seedy convenience store in the heart of Boston, buying a lottery ticket to see how far this luck would take him.

 

 


End file.
